Manhattan is very good at making you feel small and fleeting. Fragile, untethered — anonymized.
And then, every once in a blue moon, amid the din and indifference, something happens. Past, present and future collide in the crosswalk, and you’re no longer just transitory. For a fleeting moment, in the shadow of cracked brown stone and gleaming glass, you’re acutely aware of your place in the great everything. You feel seen.
At the corner of Second Avenue and 12th, a warm, red neon sign glows a few houses down the transverse. It’s an old brick building with an old red door inset with cloudy, bubble-filled glass.
White capitals on the awning spell out — TRADITIONAL ITALIAN — then veer into near parody — AND VEGAN — and the reverie shatters. Time and place coagulate.
Bathed in red light, grounded to the spot where I stand, I feel seen by a Manhattan red sauce joint.
John’s of 12th Street passes the eye test — candlelit, ringed with murals of the old country, built for the proportions of smaller, prewar Americans — so much so that it was used as a backdrop for a scene in the final season of The Sopranos.It embodies a traditional Italian-American New York ethos that’s often co-opted for unearned credibility points and tourist clout.
John’s walks the walk, however; serving Italian-American staples to a revolving door of famous New York names — many immortalized on the quintessential, yellowing picture wall — since Teddy Roosevelt’s second term in office.
The breadth of appeal and acclaim for John’s is exemplified no better than its featuring in both Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown and Guy Fieri’s Diners, Drive-Ins And Dives. Everybody loves John’s, and it’s been around forever, and there’s nothing new or groundbreaking to say about it.
That inexplicable awning, however, betrays the establishment’s foray into something borderline disruptive on its own time scale.
The dirty, modern secret of John’s is in fact borne just as proudly inside as it is emblazoned outside: in addition to its likely centenarian-plus lineup of soups, pasta, seafood, and meat, John’s features a full-page, three-course vegan menu.
A full vegan menu. Not “vegan options,” not menu items that are accidentally vegan, and not — perish the thought — vegetarian. Vegan soups, appetizers, sides, main courses, and desserts fly through the kitchen doors alongside omnivorous analogues equally and with little fanfare.
Vegan garlic bread is a can’t-miss — and, realistically, multi-order — appetizer. Save a few pieces to mop up the main course if willpower allows. Seitan subs in for animal flesh in scallopini, parmigiana, and alla Rosa dishes, but the true standout on John’s vegan menu is the eggplant parmigiana. More subtle vegan substitutions for eggs and dairy in the light breading and stretchy topping make for a classic plate that feels completely at home among anything — forgive me — Nonna could whip up.
Plated over a generous portion of pasta and covered in John’s vegan ragu, the eggplant tastes like it was made with an understanding of how vegans really eat: It’s not a health kick, a diet, or an allergy; we just want to enjoy food without animal cruelty made by people who love food as much as we do.
For a while, I would bristle at online assertions that John’s was just okay. But maybe that’s the beauty of it — in a place so traditional and larger-than-life, in a culinary capital of the world with sky-high standards and soaring prices, the vegan food is just another part of the humble menu. And all of it is okay.
Well — I think the food’s above average; but if you don’t agree with me, that’s okay. We’re okay.
Ending a meal at John’s with tiramisu seems only fitting — and the airy, rich vegan variety is potentially shareable with someone across the table. A handwritten tab, a credit card, a healthy cash tip tucked under the salt shaker, and you begin a slow, ginger walk between tightly-spaced chairs, and whisking waiters, and crowds of newcomers ready to begin their meal — and you’re spat out on the sidewalk under the red awning in the red glow of that neon sign, anonymized once more.
You’ve just eaten an entirely vegan meal at a restaurant old enough to remember the launch of the Ford Model T. It’s no secret; don’t act so surprised — it says so right there on the awning.
Whether you’ll be back is of no concern to the old brick building on 12th. The din of history will rattle on with or without your plant-based patronage. But if you do return to John’s, you can bet that for a fleeting moment — maybe even a meal — you’ll be seen again by that Manhattan red sauce joint.